On your knees before Goddess Bella Bond, you are granted the rare privilege of receiving your weekly dinner; a solitary sandwich. It sits before you on the cold floor, placed there by her hand, though not as an act of kindness, but as yet another demonstration of your absolute insignificance.
She stands tall, her tight white blouse tucked immaculately into cream jodhpurs, the crisp fabric a stark contrast to your pathetic, starved form. Her high-heeled brown leather boots, polished yet well-worn, bear the marks of countless steps taken in absolute confidence; and the gleaming silver spurs, still stained from their previous cruel use against your skin, remind you of her authority.
As you stare at the sandwich, a symbol of your entire weekly sustenance, she simply smiles. Then, with effortless cruelty, she raises her boot and grinds it into the filthy floor, crushing the sandwich beneath her sole. The dirt from her boots, accumulated from hours spent walking through the streets, mixes into the remains of your pitiful meal. Fragments of crushed insect bodies, smeared into her tread, now become an inseparable part of what you are about to consume.
She watches you with cold amusement, taking pleasure in your humiliation. The spurs are a reminder of the times she has driven them mercilessly into your flesh, and yet, here you remain; grateful. Grateful for the privilege of eating the filth beneath her boots, grateful for a moment in her presence, even if it is only to confirm your status as something less than human.
Her eyes lock onto yours as you lower yourself even further, licking the crushed remains from her boot sole, tasting the dirt and grime of her day. She is full, well-fed, radiant in her power. You, pathetic and skeletal, exist only to serve, to grovel, to worship her supremacy. And in this moment, as you consume what she has deemed fit for you, you finally understand your place in her world; beneath her, always beneath her.
